Bryan Jones' Diary - the ramblings of a menopausal man

Is there a male menopause? As a man in his mid-50s, I have recently become aware of getting older. Increasing age has had a curious effect on my psyche. I am noticing, on an almost daily basis, that I am thinking, feeling and behaving in ways that are starkly different from my youth and earlier adulthood. I will share these experiences on this blog and hope others will join me in describing their own age-related quirks and oddities. I can't be the only one at this "funny age", can I??

Friday, 21 September 2018

Two weeks ago, Mrs Jones and I attended the evening wedding
reception of a friend’s daughter. Such events always provide a valid excuse for
dusting off the glad rags and slipping into our favourite outfits. On this
occasion I opted for my buttock-hugging royal-blue slacks, providing firm hold
around the nether regions and an arse shape that screams ‘squeeze me’ to the
ladies in the vicinity.

‘Not bad at all for someone nearly 60’, I muttered as I
admired myself in the bedroom mirror prior to departure for the venue, an
upmarket country hotel.

Two hours into the event, and four pints of cask ale
imbibed, I needed my first pee of the evening. The toilets were opulent, all
tiles and gleaming porcelain, the pedestal basins adorned with a variety of
scented hand washes. I was the only one there, unexpected given that the
occasion was well attended. I approached the urinal and pulled on my zipper; it
wouldn’t budge. I tugged harder, several times, but it refused to go south.

Standing there, shoulders hunched, I inspected my groin in
search of the source of the obstruction. Drops of perspiration appeared on my
forehead. As tends to happen in such situations, the awareness of being denied
the opportunity to urinate was making the desire to do so more urgent. In
anticipation of the embarrassment should someone enter the toilet, I moved into
a cubicle so as to permit a more thorough intra-trouser exploration. With one
hand on my zipper, and the other down the front of a (very tight) waistband, I
pulled and yanked in a to-and-fro motion, an action that might have been open
to misinterpretation ifobserved by a
third party. But all to no avail; the zipper refused to move, as if welded
shut.

The fumblings of the hand down the front of my trousers –
already growing numb through the lack of blood supply – had identified the
problem: a flap of material near the fly hole that had entwined with the zipper
along its full length. With increasing desperation, I reviewed my options.
Perhaps I should call Mrs Jones on her cell phone, requesting she comes to my
aid armed with a pair of scissors? (An option I quickly dismissed, on the basis
that she would only piss herself – excuse the pun – laughing).

As my desperation escalated, catastrophic images pushed into
my mind:

Wedding guests
pointing at my gusset and shrieking in disgust as my trousers morph into
two-tone, a deeper shade of navy extending in waves from the abdomen.

Lying prostrate on the
table among the Singer sowing machines at the local textile factory as the
seamstresses debate how best to unpick the stitching. (Or maybe that was a
fantasy rather than a catastrophic image?)

Mercifully, after a 10-minutes ordeal – one that felt like
an age - my repeated tugging released the zipper and I was able to relieve
myself in the appropriate receptacle. (Is there any human experience more
pleasurable than emptying a full bladder after a period of inhibition?).

And
the next time I wear my favourite blue slacks, I will replace vanity with
practicality, focusing on that rogue flap of material under the zip rather than
the shape of my arse.

Thursday, 9 August 2018

When the captain of a boat sits on his own in the corner,
hands over his face, his bowed head shaking from side to side, it is reasonable
to suspect that all is not well.

Such was the scene Mrs Jones and I witnessed while on a boat
returning to the Greek island of Corfu after a day trip to Albania. We were
ensconced, below deck, in the covered area of a pleasure cruiser along with
around one hundred other tourists. The Ionian Sea had been choppy since we left
the port. Ten minutes into the voyage, and the boat was swinging from side to
side like a giant hammock in a gale. At first it was amusing to watch:
unoccupied chairs and tables sliding around like a scene from Poltergeist;
young men zig-zagging to the toilet, grasping the hands of seated fellow
passengers to steady themselves; and an Italian beauty, wearing more makeup
than clothing, sliding to the floor and unable to get back up, her long legs
akimbo.

From the outset I’d been making eye-contact with an obese,
disabled Romanian gentleman sitting directly opposite, leaning forward on his
walking stick, our mutual nods and smiles showing smug acceptance of the
situation. Two old sea dogs like us were not going to be phased by a bit of
choppy water. White foam rendering the windows opaque, as if we were all
entombed inside an iceberg, didn’t worry us. Real men, made of sturdy stuff,
while lesser mortals floundered. Suddenly, the boat lurched violently to
starboard catapulting the 17-stone Romanian towards me; he landed at my feet
with a thud.

I, and others, feigned to stand up to help him – if we had,
the pendulous swing of the boat would have put us all on our arses – but the
prostrate fella oozed calmness and rationality.

‘I’m fine on the floor,’ he said, palm of his hand raised
with the authority of a traffic policeman. ‘It’s the best place for me’.

And then the vomiting started. The kids who’d been
screeching and running amok on the outward journey were now sat in a line,
motionless, their faces displaying various shades of green and yellow. In
response to their communal retching, a number of plastic shopping bags had appeared
and were now being used to catch the dribbling puke. Some adults with sea
sickness – including the two holiday reps – had braved the wobbly walk to the
outside deck and were now vomiting over the side, their white-knuckled hands
clinging to the rails.

A young man who had been laid horizontal across three seats,
apparently sleeping, roused himself. He sat upright, appearing confused. In an
instant, perplexity was replaced by horror and he sprung to his feet and made a
dash for the toilet, his cheeks puffed out like an inflatable toad. He
stumbled, falling in my direction, and for a second we were almost
nose-to-nose. I resigned myself to being peppered with a semi-digested Albanian
buffet, but – and give the lad his due – like a skilled fighter-plane pilot, he
pulled off a last-minute swerve to the right and vomited over my shoulder into
a recess behind me.

Mrs Jones and I had remained seated throughout, absorbing the
chaos around us: upturned tables and chairs randomly sliding back and forth; a
chorus of retching and gurgling; white froth slapping against the windows as if
the sea had morphed into a fizzy drink; and a rotund east European lying on his
side at our feet, his chin resting on his hand, nonchalantly perusing the
mayhem. As the boat continued to veer like a giant swing at a funfair, we had
focused on the behaviour of our Greek captain. Oblivious to the stumbling,
vomiting passengers, the skipper continually ventured outside onto the exposed
deck – the open door letting in a howling gale – returning wet and windswept,
only to then repeat the action.

But now the captain had sat down in our midst. I – and I
suspect many others – looked to him for reassurance that everything was under
control. But we couldn’t see his features: he was slumped, hands over his face,
shaking his head from side to side. There was only one conclusion to be drawn:
the boat was sinking.

Mrs Jones began texting a farewell message to the kids.

I considered ringing my son to remind him of the cabinet
drawer where our will was kept.

My hand started to grope under my seat in search of a life
jacket.

And then the horizontal Romanian calmly asked the question
we all wanted answered. ‘Captain, is there something wrong with the boat?’

As if wakened from a trance, the captain lifted his head and
looked around, perplexed, trying to locate the source of the voice that had
intruded into his inner world. It took a few seconds to notice the fixed stare
from hulk on the floor and realise this was his interrogator.

‘No, no, the ship’s fine,’ he said. ‘I’ve just banged my
head on one of the rails outside’.

Ten minutes later, the sea calmed and we arrived safely in
Corfu town.

‘That was horrendous,’ said Mrs Jones as we got off the
boat. ‘I thought we were doomed’.

‘Just a bit of choppy sea,’ I said. ‘I don’t know what all
the fuss was about.’

Thursday, 31 May 2018

I like to see myself as an easy-going fella who can smile at
adversity and not take life too seriously. Yet, over the last few weeks, a
number of situations succeeded in triggering annoyance, even rage. Here are
five of my most snarl-inducing experiences.

Telephone helplines where the person reads from a script

Information technology is awesome, enabling us to access the
answer to any question at the touch of a button. In contrast, when it goes
awry, it can cause such teeth-grinding frustration. Recently, my Internet connection
ceased to function so I rang the provider to speak to an expert technician. The
subsequent telephone conversation went something like this:

ME: Hi there. I
can’t get an Internet connection. I’ve checked that the cables are all plugged
in correctly and I’ve tried switching my router on and off, but I still can’t
get online. So could I talk to a technician please?

HELPER: OK –
what I’d like you to do first is to switch your router off, leave it for 10
seconds, and then switch it back …

ME: I’ve already
done that – can you just put me through to one of your techy people

*Pause*

*Shuffling of papers*

HELPER: Would
you now check the cable leading from your computer to the router and ensure
that it …

Give me strength! If I was
more compassionate I’d recognise what a shit, poorly-paid job it is working in
a call centre but, at this particular moment, I want to put my fist through the
telephone line and punch him in the face.

2.People who believe they are transparent

There’s a football match I’m
eager to watch so I’ve arrived at the pub early in order to obtain a seat with
a full view of the television. I’m enjoying my third pint of cask ale when the
game starts, and then … some bloke stands directly in my eye line, totally
obscuring my view. I wait a while, expecting him to soon realise the error of
his ways, but no, he remains oblivious.

After a few seconds of
staring at the fella’s back, I shout, ‘Excuse me; could you move to the side so
I can see the TV.’

He turns and looks at me with
disdain – like he’s just seen me shit on his dining table – and, grudgingly,
moves a few millimetres. If I wasn’t such a wimp – and he wasn’t four-foot wide
with neck scarring and tattoos – I’d have stood up and confronted him.

Instead, I seethe in silence,
muttering into the froth of my beer.

3.Pedestrians who don’t give way

I’m walking along the
pavement/sidewalk with Mrs Jones when I notice three people, side-by-side,
walking towards me. While my lady and I make some effort to make space for
them, by turning to the side or adopting a one-in-front-of-the-other formation,
they march on, three abreast, brushing us away from their flight path. Did they
not notice us? Did they see us but thought, ‘Fuck you – we’re much more
important?’

I vow that when I next meet
such blinkered on comers I will stand my ground and shoulder them into the
oncoming traffic (that is as long as they are not four-foot wide with neck
scars and tattoos).

4.When restaurants run out of your favoured
menu choice

Following a detailed inspection
of the restaurant’s menu, enticingly displayed in the front window, we enter
and are shown to our seats. While the internal hunger monster forces saliva out
of the corner of our mouths, we eagerly order our favoured dishes, only for the
waiter to say,

‘Sorry sir, but we’ve run out
of the goat’s cheese starter and the salmon main.’

OK, so it’s the previous
customers at fault for woofing down my cheese and salmon; the no-shows in the
menu have nothing at all to do with the incompetence of the restaurant manager
and in-house chef. After all, how could they know that demand might increase a
bit on a bank holiday?

5.The blanket coverage of the royal wedding

I have zero interest in the royal family. All that pomp,
tradition and elitism leave me cold. So when Prince Harry recently hooked up
with some wench called Megan Markle this royal wedding held the same allure for
me as hearing about the marriage of a couple of strangers – that is, no
interest at all.

Nonetheless, in the days leading up to the ceremony I was
forced to endure blanket coverage by the media. Newspapers devoted page after
page to the ‘happy event’. The TV news channels dedicated hour after hour to
such riveting stuff as who would walk Meg down the aisle, what her wedding
dress would look like, and whether Harry would opt for a pre-ceremony bowel
movement or wait until after the service – OK, I made that last one up; but now
I think about it, his colonic activity would have been more interesting than
all the other guff.

On the wedding day itself, Mrs Jones and I decided to escape
the frenzy and hysteria by taking a very long walk in the hills that overlook
our town. The solitude of the countryside was bliss. But when we opted for a
pit stop in a rural village tavern, over the top of the bar was a small TV
showing – you’ve guessed it – the royal wedding. Behind us, a group of
middle-aged ladies excitedly discussed the wonders of the current queen, princes and princesses. Give me
strength!

Tuesday, 17 April 2018

It is often said that each of us carries a book inside us. I
don’t mean an actual oblong chunk of paper swishing around in one’s intestine,
but a story – somewhere in the multi-corridors of the mind - that is clamouring
to get out and is sufficiently interesting to comprise a saleable novel. Sadly,
as I approach my 60th birthday, I’ve yet to find my potential
blockbuster.

Instead of producing the next Harry Potter bestseller, what
I have discovered is that I’m an expert in procrastination. When I sit down
with the intention of crafting my masterpiece, I soon manage to distract myself
onto another activity. It seems I have developed a deft range of strategies to
impede and sabotage the creative writing process.

Here are my wonderfully effective ways of putting off until
tomorrow what you should be doing today:

1st-level strategies: (before sitting down in
front of the laptop)

Convince myself I need to
use the toilet – it is amazing how paying attention to the bladder or
bowel can evoke activity therein.

Long for the smell of
cocoa beans until there is no choice but to go and make myself another cup
of coffee.

Prod the flesh above my
trouser belt to the point where vanity kicks in and I decide to go and
engage in 30 minutes of high-intensity exercise on my static bike.

Wonder if Mrs Jones is in
the mood for love.

2nd-level strategies: (once I’ve opened the file
titled ‘novel’)

Decide that much more
preparation is required before starting my story.

Opt to research the
history of World War II on the basis that the father of one of my
peripheral characters fought in it.

Reread my multiple
‘how-to-write-a-novel’ books.

Succumb to the pull of ‘Naughty
America’.

3rd – level strategies (Once I’ve started
writing)

Agonise over the third
word of the first sentence and dedicate the next half-hour to flicking
through a Thesaurus.

Re-read book on
punctuation to decide whether to use a semicolon, dash or comma in 1st
sentence.

Carry out a word count
every 60 seconds.

Succumb to the pull of
‘Naughty America’.

4th – level strategies (Once I’ve written a
couple of pages)

Imagine a potential reader
peeing her pants with laughter at what I’ve written (despite my novel
being a crime/thriller).

Decide it’s crap, and
press ‘delete’ button.

Reflect on the possibility
that the fact that I loathe anything written by Ernest Hemmingway might
indicate I’m clueless as to what makes a decent writer.

Thursday, 22 February 2018

My father had a fall last week and I accompanied him to the
hospital, along with my 87-year-old mother. The old fella spent 4 hours in the
resuscitation area of the Accident and Emergency Department - part of it in a
cubicle, most of the time on a trolley in the corridor. My mother and I sat
with him, perched on plastic chairs. Contrary to what you might expect, this
extended period of waiting was rarely dull.

My lovely mum is hard of hearing and this long-term
affliction, together with some short-term-memory loss, can cause confusion and
disorientation. When she speaks she tend to shout, presumably as a consequence
of her deafness. Also, as she gets older, she seems to be less inhibited about
sharing what’s on her mind. While sitting in the crowded Accident and Emergency
Department - surrounded by bleeping equipment, suction machines and the night’s
ill and bleeding casualties - she announced the following:

Friday, 19 January 2018

On the tenth day of a fortnight’s holiday in Tenerife, Mrs
Jones and I were flagging. A combination of Spanish sunshine, overeating, hefty
consumption of San Miguel lager and late-night revelling at the local Irish bars
had left us feeling weary. At 58 years old, we don’t possess the same level of
stamina as in our young adulthood. We decided on an early night – not with any
intention of rumpy-pumpy, as we were too tired for that nonsense; a sustained
30-seconds of pelvic thrusting was way beyond our capabilities. The (smallish) rational
parts of our brains insisted that less alcohol and more sleep would re-energise
us for the remainder of the holiday.

So at 8.30pm, rather than bouncing into town, we opted for a
quiet drink in our hotel bar as a prelude to bed. Perched on a leather settee,
we observed our spacious and opulent surroundings: sparkling chandeliers,
sturdy-oak coffee tables, mirrored walls, a bar displaying endless varieties of
liqueurs and spirits, and bow-tied waitresses - in white blouses and black
skirts - attentive to the needs of their guests. And oh so quiet. People spoke
in whispers, as if mindful to not corrupt the sumptuous surrounds. The most
noticeable sound was the clicking of stiletto on tile, as a waitress scurried
to replenish a glass. Mrs Jones and I sat in silence, sipping our lager
nightcaps; the heaviness of our lethargy made speech feel too much of an
effort.

But then something remarkable happened.

Very gradually, we grew aware of another noise. An
intermittent growling could be heard behind us, and we turned to discover the
source. A bald headed man, maybe in his 70s, was slumped in his armchair, a
half-full glass of stout on the table in front of him. His eyes were closed,
his hands clasped in his lap. At the same table were three vacant chairs, the
empty glasses in front of them suggesting recent occupation by his companions
prior to their desertion.

We watched him closely. He’d clearly been there a while, as
evidenced by the viscous spittle forming at the corners of his mouth. Each
inward breath evoked a rasping snore followed by a silent pause, this soundless
phase extending over several seconds, sufficiently long to evoke our concerns
that the old fella may have expired. It was clear that the waitresses’ thoughts
were along similar lines, each covertly monitoring him for signs of life as
they cleared neighbouring tables. When the outbreath arrived, we could detect a
collective sense of relief in the room.

I squeezed Mrs Jones’ hand and we turned to face each other.
It seemed our minds were reaching a common conclusion.

‘Life’s too short,’ I said.

***

Four hours later we could both be found in Paddy’s Bar, each holding a pint of
Caffrey’s, screeching a tuneless rendition of ‘The Wild Rover’.

Monday, 11 December 2017

'Fourteen hours cooped up on a plane sounds like hell,’ said
Mrs Jones.

‘I’m sure the time will fly past,’ I said, resorting to tame
jokes as a way of getting into the holiday spirit.

We were boarding our flight from the UK to Singapore. I’m
not a rich man; our allocated positions were in the economy section in the rear
of the aircraft. As the only access point was at the front of the plane, we
endured the passage through business class - the expanse of space sufficient to
trigger agoraphobia - before reaching our seats, thirty rows of nine,
resembling a tightly packed battalion advancing towards the enemy.

After the token welcome by the china-doll air hostesses –
all lipstick-crusted smiles and pert rumps – we sat and observed our fellow
travellers. Our attentions were drawn to a kerfuffle from six rows in front of
us. A middle-aged lady was kicking off because there was no room to store her
hand luggage in the locker above her seat; the hostess had placed it a couple of
rows down. I leaned in to Mrs Jones and whispered,

‘Crikey! Is she worried a sneak thief will snatch and run
while we’re at 40,000 feet?’

Last to take their seats were a Chinese couple, each wearing
a surgical mask over their mouths and noses. They looked like they had just
been dragged out of the operating theatre, in the midst of removing a gall bladder, but I was reassured to note that
neither was wielding a scalpel. Is it worth looking like an utter dipstick in
an effort to filter out a few contaminants?

Two hours after take-off, and I’m still struggling to
activate my touch-screen entertainment located on the back of the seat in front
of me. The damn thing seems defective. As I repeatedly prod the glass monitor,
the obese bloke across the aisle decides to stand – to aid his circulation, no
doubt – and thrusts his lardy arse in my face. My nostrils detect the lurid
combination of blue cheese and old sweat. I consider asking the Chinese fella
if I can borrow his mask.

Bored, without any film to watch, I try to sleep. Each time
I feel I might be slipping into the land of nod, my journey is halted by a
toddler shrieking two rows behind, or a fast-moving hostess wafting past my
ear.

Four hours into the journey, a major breakthrough: I
discover the handset for my entertainment centre located in the arm of my chair
– it wasn’t touchscreen after all. After much random button pressing, I stumble
upon a back episode of Friends. I
steal a few moments of escapism, smiling at Joey and lusting after Rachel, when
I’m jolted from my musings by a whack to the head; the woman occupying the seat
in front of me had decided to recline, the thrust back so violent it seemed as
if she’d taken a run at it. Worse still, the tilt of my entertainment screen
was such that the glare from the cabin lights now rendered it unwatchable.

And then the in-flight meal arrived. The pleasant hostess
insisted the woman in front return her seat to the upright so as to grant me
sufficient room to eat, and the prostrate figure grunted, exhaled loudly and
grudgingly complied. Relishing my additional cubic centimetre of space, I
peeled back the foil from my food tray to be confronted with spicy chicken noodles
– for breakfast! I ordered a large glass of white wine to try and dampen my
growing irritation but, at my second slurp, Zsa Zsa Gabor reclined again,
causing spillage – with Chardonnay dripping off my nose, I patted her on the
top of her over-lacquered head to ask her to return to the perpendicular,
evoking more grimacing and muttering.

Resigned to torture, I spent further hours folded into my
seat, neck, back and arse all aching to various degrees, enduring that dreadful
mix of discomfort and tedium. The fat man across the aisle belched loudly, his
wind deriving from the rapid consumption of five cans of Tiger beer. A young
couple a few rows down were delivering a decent – or maybe indecent – rerun of
the Jack and Rose sex scene from Titanic,
with lots of groping, slurping and audible promises of undying love.

Thirteen hours and forty-nine minutes after take-off, we
landed at Singapore airport.

‘That wasn’t so bad after all,’ I said.

Mrs Jones’ expression did not require words.

P.S. I'm currently in the process of selling my house, car and body so we can afford business class on our next long-haul flight.